


injury and recovery

by ilaeth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Depression, M/M, Permanent Injury, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22572835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilaeth/pseuds/ilaeth
Summary: It wasn’t like Akaashi had only recently developed an inferiority complex. Even since middle school, after first seeing Bokuto play, he’s always had that underlying feeling of being a bystander and eyewitness to something great instead of someone actively involved in the process. He’d never credit himself to Bokuto’s growth because anyone could have done what he’d done, he thinks; anyone would after seeing what type of person Bokuto is. He’s the type of person that makes enemies want to be his friend and teammate.His teenage years were so busy he hadn’t the time to be too self-critical. Now, being twenty two, Akaashi doesn’t have to look far to find the impurities in himself.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 210





	injury and recovery

**Author's Note:**

> these newest chapters of haikyuu really be hitting DIFFERENTLY. akaashi's grown to become one of my favourite characters and he has such a problem with overthinking so he really resonates with me and i wanted to write something about it.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! constructive criticism is always welcomed!

When Akaashi rolls over in bed to glare at their nightstand clock it reads a very unsettling  _ 04:00. _ He breathes a sigh through his nose and rolls back over to prone, leg tossed half over the covers and half underneath. He’s timed today’s schedule perfectly in accordance to Tenma’s suggestion: go for a long run an hour before bed so you’ll be tired enough to sleep and drink passionflower tea. Akaashi hadn’t even said he wasn’t sleeping but Tenma had taken it upon himself to self-diagnose him at the sight of his horrific undereye bags and drooping shoulders.

He’d jogged, showered, and downed two mugs of passionflower tea five hours ago. He spent the better half of last night in the kitchen trying to rid his migraine with water and Advil and when that didn’t work he counted sheep in bed. It’s so early he’s beat the blackbirds to their own game and wakes before they do, singing from the treetops and skylines.

He rolls over onto his right side and watches Bokuto, silent and beautiful, sleep through the morning song.

Akaashi had always thought he was something akin to happy personified; summer, sunshine, laughter, good feelings, because wherever Bokuto goes happiness seems to follow.

The dull ache presses deeper into the space between Akaashi’s ribs and twists; a stabbing dagger pushed down to the hilt. He reaches out his hand. He can see it tremble, even in the darkness, laying it down with utmost care on the tufts of duckling-fluff soft hair of Bokuto’s hair. His fingers weave and comb his fringe from his face and he studies his smile lines and freckles from playing in France over the summer with the pads of his fingertips. He’s always beautiful, but tonight he looks a little like perfection.

It wasn’t like Akaashi had only recently developed an inferiority complex. Even since middle school, after first seeing Bokuto play, he’s always had that underlying feeling of being a bystander and eyewitness to something great instead of someone actively involved in the process. He’d never credit himself to Bokuto’s growth because anyone could have done what he’d done, he thinks; anyone would after seeing what type of person Bokuto is. He’s the type of person that makes enemies want to be his friend and teammate.

His teenage years were so busy he hadn’t the time to be too self-critical. Now, being twenty two, Akaashi doesn’t have to look far to find the impurities in himself.

Bokuto shifts underneath Akaashi’s splayed fingers and nestles closer. His brow wrinkles, “Akaashi,” He starts, voice gruff from disuse, “what time is it?”

“Late,” He says, “Go back to sleep.”

Bokuto makes a noncommittal sound. He shifts closer under the blanket and noses at Akaashi’s wrist. He places a feather-light kiss at the pulsepoint and Akaashi thinks he’s about to drift back off until he opens his eyes and the warmth of love and admiration quickly hardens into concern. He reaches up to take ahold of Akaashi’s wrist and brings his hand down to press a kiss to the backs of his knuckles, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Please, go back to sleep.”

“Can’t, now. You’ve got that look in your eye that has me worried.”

Akaashi watches Bokuto’s mouth twist at the corner as his frown deepens. Bokuto reaches out across the short distance to brush some hair from Akaashi’s eyes with his index finger, “You feeling okay?”

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says.

“Alright, alright,” His tone is placating, because he’s been through this routine before and knows it works. Akaashi climbs closer underneath the covers. The mattress squeaks as they maneuver into each other's arms until they’re chest to chest and Akaashi has his head tucked underneath Bokuto’s chin. As much as he likes being the one cradling Bokuto, which admittedly is the majority of the time, role reversal doesn’t feel bad at all. 

And even now he feels undeserving. The nauseating feeling of guilt claws at his throat and he wants to cry, but Akaashi’s so overwhelmed he can’t even bring himself to. The daze fades after a few moments and only then does Akaashi realise Bokuto’s combing through his hair with those gentle, warm fingers of his. He’s nothing  _ but _ gentle, fingertips trailing down Akaashi’s temples to hold his face at the jaw in both hands, “What’s wrong?” Bokuto asks again.

“I don’t know,” Akaashi repeats, except he  _ does _ know but he can’t say because Bokuto wouldn’t understand, he  _ can’t _ understand because he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see himself the way Akaashi and the rest of the world do. He half wants to let Bokuto be free and live a life where he can find someone better to love who wouldn’t hold him back with an ankle injury that crushed their dreams of going pro together. The other half holding him back reminds Akaashi that Bokuto’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he can’t ever let something like this go.

“You’re overthinking again.” Bokuto says.

“I’m always overthinking.”

“Not like this. You haven’t slept for the past few days properly, Keiji.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He’s barely visible in the darkness of their room and Akaashi can only just about make the outline of his body out. Bokuto flips on their bedside table’s lamp and passes over a half empty glass of water Akaashi had brought in earlier to take the Advil to him. He gulps it down like a dying man in a desert and pushes to sit, too, passing the glass back over to Bokuto, “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

It’s harder not to speak than it is to just blurt and admit what’s been bothering him. Akaashi purses his lips and struggles to make eye contact before shaking his head, “I’m sure,” He says, “Maybe later,” He amends.

“Come on,” Bokuto says, tilting his head and leaning close into Akaashi’s side, who supports the weight with practiced ease, “Let’s go watch that documentary you recorded on the moon landing. You recorded it, right?”   


“You have training later,” Akaashi argues.

Bokuto shuts him up with a kiss. Akaashi swallows down his protests and sighs, tilting their foreheads together and falling into his open arms. When they part Bokuto runs his hands, sleep-warm and callused, up the back of Akaashi’s pyjama shirt, “Well, I’m already awake. We may as well just move into the living room. Maybe it’ll be boring enough to send us both back to sleep.”

Akaashi can’t protest against that. He swivels to hang his legs off the side of the bed and stand as Bokuto gathers their comforter in his arms and brings it into the sitting room. Akaashi’s a few steps behind due to the slight limp, sheepish, gingerly taking a seat on the sofa like he’s at a stranger’s house. With no hesitation Bokuto tucks Akaashi in snugly with the quilt and flicks their TV on, turning the sound down low enough as to not disturb their neighbors in the flat upstairs.

“Where are you going?”

Bokuto presses a kiss to his temple and rises from his crouch at the foot of the sofa from where he’d been tucking Akaashi in, “I’ll go get us some tea.”

“You don’t have to do this all for me.”

Bokuto rolls his eyes. He ruffles the mess of curls on top of Akaashi’s head, “You’ve done this for me on my bad days more times than I can count. Let me take care of you for once.

“But--”

“No buts.”

Akaashi closes his mouth and settles back into the plush cushions of their sofa. As the adverts roll before the documentary starts he watches the sun rise outside the living room’s window, bleeding orange and warmth across their apartment’s floor and walls. Bokuto returns a few moments later with mismatching mugs and crawls underneath the quilt to nuzzle up next to Akaashi. He takes the mug from Bokuto’s hands and warms his palms with it, taking a tentative sip. Only then does the knife between his ribs loosen and the pain begins to fade. The pressure dissipates like a balloon losing air. Akaashi tilts his head to lean on Bokuto’s shoulder, who merely presses a kiss to the crown of his head and supports his weight with his own.

It’s hard to realise you deserve something you desperately think you don’t, Akaashi thinks. The debilitating ankle injury just after highschool had rendered his future in volleyball impossible, and yet, Bokuto’s stayed, despite his own promising future. He’s cared for him through the hard times and cried with him, laughed with him, and loved him for what he is. Akaashi doesn’t think he deserves any of it but lets himself, in this liminal space, relish in the safety and solace of Bokuto’s care. The world keeps on turning and the birds keep on singing, and slowly, as Akaashi allows himself to, he heals.


End file.
